This Is War and I Won't Surrender
by marinoa
Summary: Arthur just knows that his boyfriend is cheating on him... and he will have none of that! He will step on the battlefield and win Alfred back, no matter what. But Arthur soon discovers that though all is fair in love and war, the line between the two is disturbingly vague. Welcome to the most ridiculous love triangle... mess... ever!
1. Chapter 1

_Author's note: _Hello, folks! I'm here to present you with another ridiculously overgrown oneshot. Please don't take this fic seriously, I beg you. That is all I wanted to say. Good day to you.

**This Is War and I Won't Surrender**

The first sign was a long, blond hair on Alfred's black jacket.

Arthur's hair was blond, sure, but it was short, and while Alfred's hair was longer than Arthur's, it still didn't equal the hair that Arthur found on this boyfriend's jacket. Besides, neither Arthur's nor Alfred's hair was wavy.

The second sign was the scent of unfamiliar cologne on Alfred's clothes, a cologne neither of the two men wore. And yet the pleasant scent of lilies clung to Alfred whenever he returned home from his mysterious walks.

Which were part of the last and the hardest evidence: the little lies here and there. Alfred had never been good at lying – he always had the face of a guilty child whenever he attempted to avoid the turth – and so it didn't take a psychologist to tell that something was a bit off.

And that was when Arthur Kirkland, a perfect British gentleman, finally came to the realisation that his boyfriend Alfred F. Jones, a self-proclaimed American hero, was cheating on him.

Arthur dealt with the realisation with considerable tact, as was expected of a gentleman like himself. After a lonely, drunken night in a pub and the following (rather hellish) morning, he decided that he wouldn't say anything to Alfred. After all, he didn't want to break up with the American... he would make him pay for his misstep, yes, but he didn't really want a break up; they had been together a long time, and despite everything, Arthur did cherish the moments he had shared with Alfred (not that he would admit that aloud).

This reasoning led Arthur to one conclusion: he would have to fight the faceless mysterious person who was trying to steal his partner, and he would win. No one knew Alfred like he did, so it wouldn't be hard to win the stupid American back.

From words to action, then.

The first step in Arthur's plan was to find out how desperate the American was to see his new object of infatuation. So, when Alfred the next time declared that he was going for a walk, Arthur was prepared.

"Oh," he said in a perfectly normal way. "I just thought to ask if you felt like watching a film with me. You know, that new action film you've been wanting to see."

Alfred halted in the doorway. "Really?" he asked, excitement taking over him in a second. "The one with Russians and aliens?"

"The very same."

"Cool!" But then something washed over the American's eyes, something akin to guilt. "But... ugh... How, how about we go and see it tomorrow?"

Something cold twisted in Arthur's gut, but he let none of that show. "Well," he said, not quite managing to hide all of his disappointment. "If you wish."

"I, uh, I... I'll be back in a couple of hours," Alfred mumbled guiltily and left.

Right, so merely spending time together didn't work. Now Arthur had to know how bad exactly the situation was. And so, when Alfred came up with a little lie again (this time, needing to return some films to a friend of his), Arthur turned to him with a gleam in his eyes and his shirt invitingly, yet very discreetly unbuttoned. "Oh?" he said, innocently, so innocently that Alfred stiffened when he turned to look at him. Yes, there it was, the want in his eyes. It wasn't a lost case yet.

"I..."

Arthur could see him swallow and smirked inwardly.

"I'll be back soon."

The American left again, not seeing the now darkened green eyes. So even an offer of sex didn't work? That was bad. That was very, very bad... But there was one last trial to make, and if Alfred failed that, too, Arthur would know that the situation was crucial and he would have to take drastic actions. And so, when Alfred informed him about his plans to visit his mother, Arthur blinked and, without showing any disgust that he truly felt, deliberately spoke.

"Pity," he said, "I was just suggesting we had dinner at McDonald's today."

Again, Alfred was tempted... but not enough. He left. He left, and Arthur knew that the time for games was over. He would have to either withdraw from the battlefield, or then step out on it and fight for what was his. And as it happened, Arthur Kirkland was not a quitter. If the situation called for war, then war it would be. The days of Alfred's mysterious lover were counted.

For eliminating the person, however, Arthur would have to get to know him, so first he would have to find out who he was. And that, that would happen by spying.

Arthur began very subtly. He needn't get too close at first, he would keep his distance and just observe from afar. No sneaky costumes, no fancy sunglasses, no new hairstyles. Their time would come later.

Thus, at the first convenient moment, when Alfred announced to go to an art gallery with his work colleagues (seriously, Alfred?), Arthur made his first move. Precisely one minute and thirty-five seconds after Alfred had closed their front door, Arthur opened it again and slipped outside. He immediately glimpsed Alfred hailing himself a taxi, and hid behind a tree to avoid being caught. A taxi came, the American climbed inside, and the car drove off, leaving Arthur rather stupidly hiding behind his tree. _I need a taxi_, he thought, but, unlike it happened in those stupid action films that Alfred so loved because there were lots of explosions and no plot to strain his brain on, there suddenly seemed to occur an unexpected distinction of taxis. None came Arthur's way, and he had already lost Alfred's taxi anyway. "Fuck," he muttered. He hadn't even checked the car's number... not that he would have known what to do with it. "Okay," he promised to himself. "Next time I do this, I do it professionally."

With his plan thus failed, he was a bit at loss of concerning his next move. He didn't quite feel like going home now and admit defeat, but he had no idea where Alfred had _really_ gone, so looking for him at random places was plain stupid. Sighing, Arthur was just about to swallow his failure and go back home, when a long-awaited taxi finally turned around a corner. Contemplating just for a fraction of a second, Arthur waved his hand; he might not find Alfred any more, but as he was already there, on the pavement, he might as well try his luck with one blind shot.

"To an art gallery," he said.

The driver lifted his brow. "Which one?"

Arthur thought about it for a moment. "The one they just opened yesterday," he finally decided. There was a chance that Alfred had actually been telling the truth, at least partly, and the new gallery was more likely to be the place for the rendezvous, as it had just been opened. Alfred didn't care for art (the last time that the American had been in a museum or a gallery had been a year earlier, when he had won free tickets from McDonald's to a fast-food expedition), but perhaps his new partner was an over-sophisticated fucking pansy and wanted to pretend to be cultural and all to keep the stupid American interested.

This time, Lady Luck was smiling to him (if it could be put that way); on getting out of the taxi a but further, Arthur spotted Alfred standing at the main doors of the gallery, apparently waiting for someone. So, he had been telling the truth... at least partly. Now Arthur had to only wait and see if Alfred's colleagues would emerge... or if it was someone else. Fortunately, Alfred had made a point of introducing the Englishman to all his co-workers when they had just stared dating, and Arthur had been invited to some of their annual parties, too. He knew most of the American's colleagues at least by look.

That's why, when an unknown man approached Alfred, Arthur knew that it was not his colleague that Alfred was truly going with. And the kiss that the two shared right there at the entrance was _not_ a normal greeting between work-mates. Arthur's face twisted in disgust as he watched it – he couldn't drag his eyes away. He was quite far from the couple, so they couldn't spot him among all the people, but he himself could observe all he wished... and that's just what he did. The man Alfred was seeing was tall and well-shaped. He had wavy blond hair that was shining in the sun, and it reached his shoulders, though was now tied to a ponytail. He was wearing a fancy white suit, but the jacket was casually hanging over his arm, revealing a stylish dress shirt. Arthur wrinkled his nose. All about that man screamed _expensive, pompous, classy, _how on earth had Alfred attracted such a man? And why the hell had Alfred went for him, anyway? Fancy had never been his style!

The couple (_hah!_) went inside, and Arthur turned instantly around. He felt utterly humiliated. What did Alfred want? Was he after flashy things, after all? Did Arthur not meet his standards? What a thought! To not meet Alfred's standards was... was like being thrash under filthy feet, because Alfred didn't _have_ standards! Arthur groaned, hiding his face with his hands. If he was going to compete with that man, he... he didn't know what to do. It didn't take a close inspection to see that Arthur was completely out of his league. He didn't stand a chance.

Arthur stopped in his tracks. He didn't have a chance. What was he thinking? _He_ didn't have a chance, he, Arthur? He, who knew Alfred inside out, better than any fancy strangers ever could! Of-fucking-course he stood a chance – even better – he was likely to _win_! Arthur Kirkland would not lose to some pompous pansy! Now that he had seen his enemy, he was a step ahead of him. He would keep an eye on him, if possible, and... and something would come up. He would find a crucial fault in him. He would destroy his reputation. He would paint him black in Alfred's eyes, he would get Alfred spit on his picture! For that, Arthur would have to somehow get to know the mysterious man better. An ancient advice came to his mind: K_eep your friends close, but keep your enemies closer. _That's what he would do. Somehow he would make Alfred introduce him to his new bloody lover boy. He would spy on them and walk in on them when they would be in innocent enough situations, like in a café or something. Alfred would be obliged to introduce them to each other.

Satisfied with his new war plan, Arthur went home. _Just wait, you, _he thought. _Your days are numbered_. Whether he spoke to Alfred or his lover, he didn't know.

xXx


	2. Chapter 2

**This Is War and I Won't Surrender**

The following several days were peaceful. Alfred didn't go to meet his lover, and Arthur waited patiently for him to make his mistake. He wasn't even sad any more, he wasn't heart-broken. He just awaited his chance to show his superiority over anyone that claimed to be better than him. Alfred would see. His lover would see. And Alfred would never think of cheating on him again.

Things, however, went somewhat differently than how Arthur had planned. It appeared that he didn't need Alfred to introduce him to his lover, after all. The man introduced himself to Arthur on his own accord.

It all happened by chance, without any planning whatsoever. It was a warm and sunny day of early autumn, so Arthur had decided to enjoy his lunch break in a café terrace near to the music shop he worked at. However, half the city had seemed to have same sort of plans, so the terrace was crowded. Arthur had been there early enough to catch the last free table, and was in the middle of biting into his home-made sandwich when someone disturbed him.

"Excuse me, may I sit here?" a suave voice asked, and Arthur glanced up to see who was intruding his peace.

First he saw a pair of sky-blue eyes, then a charming smile, then long sun-kissed hair to frame a handsome face. Then recognition hit Arthur, and he gasped. Only it was a bad idea with food filling his mouth, so he started coughing, trying to get bread out of his windpipe. The man – _the _man!– tapped him on the back. "Careful," he said, frowning a bit. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."

Arthur gulped some tea and inhaled. Shit, that was embarrassing. "Er, yes, go ahead," he croaked, gesturing at the free chair opposite to him and sipped some more tea to make sure no coughing would resume.

"_Merci_." The man sat down in a graceful movement. Arthur's brow twitched. _Are you fucking serious, Alfred? A _Frenchman_, of all possible people? _He stared at the light stubble shadowing the man's chin, not believing his luck – bad luck? – good luck? – to be meeting Alfred's secret lover like this, without Alfred. Then he frowned. Did the man know that he, Arthur, was actually Alfred's boyfriend? Was that why he chose to sit at his table? Or was he even aware of Alfred being, in fact, taken?

The Frenchman noticed Arthur's stare and frowned slightly in confusion. "Are you all right?" he asked, breaking Arthur from his trance.

The Englishman shook his head to clear his mind. "Yes. Merely thinking."

"I see." The Frenchman extended his hand. "Let me introduce myself. I'm Francis Bonnefoy."

Arthur accepted the hand, trying to mask his disgust. "Arthur Kirkland."

His name made no change on the other man's face. Perhaps Alfred had never mentioned it to him. "Pleased to met you," the man said instead, with a smile.

"Oh, very."

"Thanks for letting me sit here. The terrace sure is crowded today."

Arthur had never possessed a talent for smooth small talk, and even less so when he was speaking to Frenchmen who were trying to break his relationship. "It sure is," he grunted and bit into his sandwich again. He had thought of sort of befriending this man to get to know him, but now he doubted it would ever be possible. The man was a cheater, he was French, he was acting in a disgustingly charming way without any visible effort and looking even better, and Arthur hated him.

Francis Bonnefoy seemed to realise that Arthur wasn't in the mood for a chat, and focused on ordering something from a waitress that had approached them.

Once the waitress was gone with his order, the Frenchman wrinkled his nose and looked around, as if looking for something. Arthur watched him from the corner of his eye. Then the Frenchman's eyes stopped on him and his sandwich.

"_Mon Dieu_," he groaned. "What is it you are eating?"

Arthur frowned in annoyance. How dare that man? "A sandwich," he answered coolly. "In case you are unable to see."

The Frenchman peered at the offending sandwich carefully. "Are you sure it's still... edible?"

Arthur snorted. "Of course it is! I made it this morning."

"Oh. And for a moment here I was trying to convince myself that no one would put in their mouth anything that smells so repulsive. What _is_ it?"

Arthur smirked and held up his sandwich for closer observation. He was delighted to see the Frenchman reflexively shifting away. "Why, the usual. Simply tomatoes, cucumber, cheese, ham, and Marmite," he announced proudly.

Francis glared at the sandwich like it would jump and stuff itself into his mouth by force. "Marmite? Don't tell me that people actually eat that poison!"

"Excuse me, that 'poison' happens to be very nourishing and contains plenty of B-vitamin."

The Frenchman shuddered. "I don't want to know what it contains," he uttered. "It smells disgusting, I can smell it even across the table!"

"It's not my fault you are too much of a pansy to appreciate what's good. No wonder you lost to Germans in the Second World War. Marmite is one of the reasons why we won," Arthur announced smugly.

"I can see why – even the Germans would know to keep far away from it!" At that moment the Frenchman's own food was brought to the table. He thanked the waitress with a suave smile, but the smile disappeared as soon as she was gone. "Your excuse of a sandwich, _monsieur_, is ruining my appetite."

Arthur frowned angrily. The insults started to get on his nerves. "Then you are free to piss off and sit elsewhere, _monsieur_," he said mockingly. However, even as he spoke, he saw that there no longer were free places on the terrace.

The Frenchman realised the same and muttered something inaudible in his native language, and Arthur smirked in victory, even if it meant that he would have to suffer the company of the frog for the whole lunch break. He wasn't really hungry any more, but, just to spite the Frenchman, he reached for his lunch box and took out another sandwich. He bit into it, smugly looking at the Frenchman's disgusted face.

"With such pathetic an attempt of flirting with food you won't get anywhere," the man snorted, misinterpreting Arthur's look on purpose. He was just trying to spite him, Arthur knew, but anger washed over him nonetheless. He wasn't the hardest people to provoke.

But his words had also stung in an unpleasant way. At that moment Arthur remembered again that Francis was the one that Alfred was cheating on him with – he had forgotten it for a moment – and indeed, it wasn't Francis who was in danger of losing his lover. Except that he was, he was going to lose Alfred, because Arthur was going to win him back, but the man didn't know that yet.

His mood gone sour, Arthur realised he didn't want to be around this bastard frog any longer. He shot his famous death glare to his direction. "You are lucky I have to return to work," he spat threateningly and got up.

"I'm sorry if I hit the bull's eye," the Frenchman snorted, not looking apologetic at all.

"Dream on." Just to be a nuisance, Arthur left his unfinished Marmite sandwich there on the table, so that the Frenchman would enjoy his meal as little as possible, and left.

"Hey! Take your poison food with you!" He heard the frog yell after him, and, despite himself, smirked._ Just wait_. _You'll get much worse than that._

xXx


	3. Chapter 3

**This Is War and I Won't Surrender**

"Arty..."

Alfred's whiny voice dragged Arthur back into reality from the book he was reading. The American had just entered their flat, closing the door with a slam. He wore a pathetic expression on his face. Arthur lifted one of his eyebrows expectantly. "Yes, Alfred?"

"Do you know any Russian?"

"Russian?" Arthur put the book aside. "No, why?"

Alfred crossed his arms over his chest and pouted, slumping down on the sofa beside Arthur. "Ivan called me some names in Russian today at work and I want to know what he said exactly so that I can rub it in his face tomorrow."

Arthur suppressed a chuckle. Alfred looked like a little puppy who tried to find a way to threaten a bigger dog but failed. "Check in a dictionary, idiot."

"As if I could read that weird alphabet! Besides, I don't remember the words any more," Alfred whined.

Arthur rolled his eyes. In moments like this he felt that Alfred was his little brother and not his (cheating) boyfriend. "He's been calling you names since you started working there. And, mind you, it was you who actually started it, if I recall correctly. Which I do, because I was there when you first met."

"But today he had this particularly triumphant expression that annoys the hell out of me! It's unfair to use weird languages to insult!"

"Maybe this is a sign for you to actually try learning something else than your twisted version of English," Arthur, rather hypocritically, snorted. He himself didn't know other languages beside English, save for the very basics of French, but he had at least tried. Alfred instead wasn't too interested in the world outside the borders of the United States, be it languages or cultures.

"Yeah right," the American laughed. "Why struggle with other languages when we speak American?"

"English, Alfred. I only wish you would learn even that properly."

It was Alfred's turn to roll his eyes (he had hardly ever done so before meeting Arthur). "_Please_. Don't you know that languages, like, _evolve_?"

"They do, but not when people are too lazy to spell words correctly! That's _degrading_."

Alfred laughed. "Who cares?"

Arthur huffed and picked up his book again. It was so odd – everything was as it always was, they were bickering with Alfred just like they had since they first got to know one another, and if he tried, Arthur could almost pretend that nothing was wrong. That there was no 'other guy' involved. _I guess it's a good sign,_ Arthur thought. Alfred showed no signs of resentment, boredom, or dislike for the Englishman, and was completely at ease with him, so that must be a sign of him being comfortable with being with Arthur, and not yearning to go away... right?

"Wanna go eat out tonight?" Alfred asked suddenly. Arthur cast a suspicious look at him from the corner of his eye. "I swear, Alfred, if you even think of fast food restaurants, you won't get any -" Arthur froze in mid-sentence. He had been about to 'sex', but in a sudden flash he realised that he couldn't even remember when they had last actually _had_ sex with Alfred. A... month ago? For fuck's sake, _really_?

Alfred gave him an expectant look and Arthur remembered that his threat was still hanging in the air. "Food," he finished it lamely, still shocked at his revelation. He hadn't even noticed... Baffled, Arthur realised that for the past month or so the only times when he had thought of Alfred sexually were the moments of jealousy, when the American had sneaked out to meet Francis. But when had been the last time he had _truly_ wanted him?

Alfred pouted at him. "Hey, not fair!" he whined. "Fine. Where do you want to go?"

Arthur shook his head to rid himself of his thoughts and focused on the present moment.

xXx


	4. Chapter 4

**This Is War and I Won't Surrender**

"Excuse me, I'm looking for-"

Arthur turned around to face the customer and scowled on seeing who it was – Francis, of course. Speak of the devil... Arthur had just been thinking of him. They had briefly met at the terrace near Arthur's work place a couple of days earlier, but they hadn't exchanged any words that time; the Frenchman had sat at the farthest table from Arthur's, and both had eaten their lunch in peace.

Francis frowned when he saw Arthur's face. "You!" he exclaimed. "The Marmite man!"

Arthur rolled his eyes at such a nickname. "What do you want?" he grunted. Francis had no right to stride into his music shop when there were plenty of others in the town. "You are disturbing my work."

Francis lifted one of his eyebrows, and Arthur watched it. It wasn't fair – the Frenchman managed to do that small gesture so very elegantly, while every time Arthur did it, it looked like something was trying to eat his face. "Disturb your work?" Francis repeated. "And here I thought that serving customers would _be_ your work."

"Serving frogs is not."

"How very witty."

Arthur smirked. "I know."

Francis gave him a funny look with his neat, lifted eyebrows and then gave a small smile. "So, I've been looking for this vinyl with a collection of Jacques Brel's songs, but I haven't had any luck. I believe yours is the last music shop I haven't checked."

Arthur was tempted to say no and send the man away, but, as Francis had pointed out, he was a customer, so it wouldn't do to show him the door; Arthur's boss would make him pay for the vinyl himself. Arthur sighed resignedly, just to make it clear that he wasn't helping Francis of his free will, and headed to the shelf with vinyl records. Francis followed him there.

"Who was it again?" he asked, starting to flip through different artists.

"Jacques Brel. You don't know him?" Francis sounded appalled.

Well, Arthur did know the name, but he had never listened to his music; he found no great pleasure in music if he couldn't understand the lyrics. "It isn't my job to know every bloody nobody in the music world."

He heard the Frenchman gasp. "_Nobody_? You are calling _him_ nobody? Why, you uncivilised, brutal punk! Who in their right mind could hire a barbarian like yourself to this otherwise fine music shop? To call Brel _nobody_! You are a philistine of the worst kind, _rosbif_!"

Arthur turned slowly around from the shelf to gawk at the Frenchman. Francis' eyes were burning with blue, freezing flames, and Arthur was sure that if looks could kill, Arthur would be not only a philistine and a barbarian, but also a corpse. Francis' whole appearance screamed for blood, and there was something incredibly thrilling- W_ait, no, don't finish that thought_.

Arthur held up his hands. "If you strangle me now, you will never find your vinyl," he threatened.

Francis blinked and gave a small, apologetic smile. "I guess I must spare you then," he said, his composure regained. "Have you ever listened to him?" he asked when Arthur handed him the vinyl.

"Not really."

"That is to be corrected. At what time do you finish working today?"

Arthur's eyes shot up at the Frenchman's. "What?" Even he could tell what would be the Frenchman's next words; no one asked a question like that unless they had some ulterior motive, and it wasn't hard to guess where that particular question was leading to. "Why?" he asked anyway, to win some time.

Francis looked like he was asking himself the same question as he voiced his next words. "I will pick you up for my place and we will listen to Jacques Brel, and you will regret your barbaric words about him."

Arthur couldn't but stare. "Er..."

Francis seemed to realise how his suggestion must have appeared to Arthur. "It's not what it sounds like!" he hurried to explain. "I already am in a relationship, so you are safe. Besides, I could never- _Dieu_, that terrible poison you like to eat, and your insufferable temper!"

Arthur's brow twitched.

"I only want to correct the terribly unjust opinion you have of one of my favourite artists. I assure you there's nothing more to it." The Frenchman seemed to shudder at the thought of there being anything more to it, and that soured Arthur's mood even further. First the Frenchman rubbed his affair with Alfred to Arthur's face, then he made it even worse by showing how repulsive he thought Arthur to be. _Fine, _the Englishman thought. _Fine._

He said that aloud, as well. "Fine."_ You will see. When Alfred will be mine again, you will see_. This was a good chance to him – what could be a better way to find what skeletons Francis hid in his closets if not this? _Keep your friends close, but keep the enemies closer_. Arthur's lips curled in a nasty little smile. Yes. He would discover all Francis' dirty secrets and reveal them to Alfred, and Alfred would realise what a mistake he had made.

Francis seemed to start regretting blurting out his invitation, but said nonetheless, "Well then. I'll pick you up." He paid for his vinyl and left, and Arthur stayed in the shop, torn between feeling smug and restless.

True to his word, Francis came some minutes after six, when Arthur's shift ended. When he nodded towards his car, Arthur couldn't help but remember all the times his mother had warned him to stay away from strangers and never ever under any conditions follow them into their vehicles .

"I don't live that far," Francis explained. "A ten minutes drive or so."

"Right." Arthur fastened his seat belt.

"Do you want to grab something to eat before we go? A take-away perhaps?"

Arthur's stomach growled at the thought of food. "Not necessary", he said, not wanting to spend any extra time with the Frenchman if he could avoid it.

Francis raised one of his brows at the sound that Arthur's stomach had made. "Take-away, then."

They drove in silence, letting the radio fill the lack of conversation for them. Arthur wondered how it had come to that – him heading for the house of the man with whom his boyfriend had a secret affair. Why on earth had Francis suggested it to begin with – Arthur was a stranger to him, after all. Unless it was this man's custom to drag every unsuspecting victim to his house without first getting to know them. Was that how he had lured Alfred into an affair with him, too? Had Alfred been once sitting on that very same front seat, not even imagining that the Frenchman's motives might not be quite innocent? Or had Alfred wanted to shag Francis the moment he first laid eyes on him? Had... had they done it in the Frenchman's car? Oh dear God, perhaps on the front seat, too!

"Is anything the matter?" Francis asked him suddenly. Arthur hadn't even noticed that the Frenchman had kept casting glances his way every now and then.

"Nothing at all," Arthur replied through his gritted teeth. "Do you often offer strangers a ride to your home with the excuse of musical education?"

"As a matter if fact, I do not. And I thought I had made it perfectly clear that this musical education, as you call it, is not an excuse for anything else."

"Splendid."

They drove in silence again, for a few moments. Then Francis spoke up. "Nevertheless, I must admit that I keep asking myself why on earth I invited you. As you said, we hardly know each other. And you are terribly rude."

"Excuse me? You started first insulting my food!"

"Food indeed." Francis rolled his eyes. "But I guess people are strangers until you get to know them, and you don't get to know them unless you spend time with them."

"How sweet. Do you mean to say we are bonding now?"

"Arthur," Francis said. "Although I love my life, I'll start considering driving off a cliff if you keep up with that tone."

"Is that a threat?"

"Interpret it as you wish."

"That coming from a person you barely even know is actually somewhat unnerving," Arthur said. "For all I know, you might well go and do it."

Francis gave him a wink. "I might. But I'm not that radical. First I'll try something else to shut your mouth."

Arthur was just about to accuse the Frenchman of being a pervert, when Francis pulled the car to a stop beside some Asian restaurant. "Food," he said in an explanatory tone, smiling, and Arthur shut his mouth with a snap.

Instead of take-away, as they had first planned, they resolved for eating in the restaurant after all, figuring that the food would go cold before they got to Francis' and, besides, Arthur wanted to spend as little time in the Frenchman's home as possible, which he made quite clear. There were only few people in the restaurant besides them, so their orders came quickly. "Good," Arthur commented to that, just to remind the frog that he wasn't there willingly. "The sooner we get this over and done with, the better."

Francis cocked an eyebrow at him. "For somebody who so detests my company you accepted my invitation rather quickly. I didn't force you in my car, you know." He picked the chopsticks in his hand, then put them back on the table and looked at Arthur, who was currently lifting his glass of water to his lips. "Speaking of it, why is it that you despise me so much? Are you insufferable like that by nature, or am I just that special?" He shrugged when Arthur frowned at him. "Just curious. It was an honest question."

For a fleeting moment Arthur felt almost bad for the Frenchman; from the first time Arthur had glimpsed him, he had known who he was and what he was doing, and treated him accordingly. But Francis had no such background knowledge, and thus Arthur's attitude towards him probably looked unjust. Arthur would love to correct him just to get a chance to vent, but he didn't want Francis knowing, not yet.

His musings, however, were interrupted by the very object of them. "If it's a delicate matter to you, forget I ever asked," Francis said, and Arthur wasn't sure if he was being mocked or not.

"A delicate matter," he mimicked, snorting. "It is not. If you must know, I'm insufferable, as you put it, only to those who deserve it." He paused. "Which does cover majority of the people around me, though."

Francis twisted a weird smile at that, and for some reason Arthur felt bad again for being a prick towards the Frenchman. _Shit_, he thought, and tried not to choke on his pride and stubbornness as he forced himself to swallowed them. "Or then you could say I just am like this. I guess."

This time Francis' smile was real and he actually gave a laughter. "I see." He didn't say anything else, and the conversation died at that, until Arthur commented on his food (it was generally good, but there was a funny taste to it) and Francis responded to that (beware Marmite, it kills taste buds despite the vitamin B), and then Arthur responded to that, and then, before they knew, they once again had a natural conversation going with no awkwardness or forced words whatsoever. It was funny, actually, how easy it was to forget what Francis did with Alfred behind Arthur's back, and how the real reason of Arthur being there with Francis was lost somewhere among the words.

They spent more time eating than what was strictly necessary, but eventually they were done and ready to head to Francis' flat. Francis didn't live far, so in no time Arthur found himself sprawled on a soft sofa in a spacey apartment. With his belly full, he felt pleasantly warm and cosy, and when Francis suggested they had a glass of wine to complete the meal, he agreed with no second thoughts. The Frenchman emerged from his kitchen with two round glasses filled with red liquid, handed one to Arthur and placed the other on the table, and put the record playing. Then he plopped down beside Arthur and picked up his own wine. "Mm," he muttered contentedly, smelling the drink. "This is precisely what is needed after a long day."

Arthur couldn't but hum in agreement. Jacques Brel had started singing, and though Arthur understood only occasional words here or there, he couldn't say the music was bad, not even to spite Francis. "You're a fan of his, then?" he asked idly, swirling his wine in the glass.

"He's one of my favourites," the Frenchman admitted, and in that moment, listening to the song playing, Arthur could well understand why.

"What does he sing about?"

Francis smiled. "In this song? _Dans le port d'Amsterdam._ He sings about sailors."

Arthur closed his eyes and listened to the powerful voice. "I used to dream of becoming a sailor," he blurted out without considering whether or not that was information that Francis needed to know.

"I used to dream of becoming a chef."

Arthur cracked one of his eyes open and directed it at the Frenchman, somewhat surprised that he hadn't laughed, but rather told an old dream of his own. "Why didn't you?"

Francis shrugged. "Some dreams are to remain dreams. Life took me elsewhere, and I'm glad it did."

"And... what do you do know?" It struck Arthur that, in fact, he knew nothing much about the Frenchman, not even any basic information. And yet, it shouldn't be weird because they really had only just met and that night was the first that they actually _talked, _anyway.

Francis smirked. "I'm a university literature teacher."

"You? No way!"

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"You just... don't look like a teacher." A chef, yes, Arthur had no troubles to picture Francis as a chef, or an artist, or a journalist, but a literature teacher? Well... on the other hand, why not?

Francis chuckled. "I take that as a compliment."

"Be my guest. As a teacher, you can't receive to many, anyway."

"Actually, I am good at what I do, and from what I've heard, students quite like my lectures," Francis announced proudly. "You, however, would have made an excellent sailor, I am sure. Or rather, a captain. I'm sure you would have enjoyed throwing people overboard or making them walk the plank."

Arthur smirked lazily. "You bet I would have."

There was a lull in the conversation, as both men were comfortable and drowsy and (in Arthur's case) perhaps just a little bit tipsy from the wine. Brel was still singing, now a slow, emotional song, and Arthur was somewhat taken aback by how he, in fact, enjoyed his music; even without understanding the lyrics, the man's powerful voice conveyed the feeling. Besides, Francis occasionally translated some parts of the song playing or explained the general idea of it.

The peace was disturbed when Arthur's cell phone beeped loudly. Arthur jumped, jerked from his pleasantly hazy state, and swore under his breath while fishing for his phone from his pocket. It was a text, from Alfred. Quickly turning the phone so that Francis couldn't glimpse the name on the screen even if he tried, Arthur read the message. _'Yo Art wher ok?' _Rolling his eyes at such terrific spelling habits, Arthur flushed. He had completely forgotten to inform Alfred that he'd come home later than usual, and a quick glance at the clock told that it was quite late already. He typed a quick reply telling that he was at his friends' and would be at home soon. He was astonished catch himself feeling a bit guilty for being with Francis, even though it didn't make sense because it was _Alfred_ who was dating the man behind Arthur's back, and it wasn't like Arthur was at Francis' place to do anything that he should be feeling guilty for, and really, none of it made any sense and it was totally the wine talking anyway.

After he had sent the message, Arthur noticed Francis' blue eyes on him, curious. "That your girlfriend?"

Arthur focused on stuffing the phone back into his pocket. "Boyfriend, actually."

"Oh." Then, "What is he like?"

_As if you didn't know already. _"He's... Well. Pretty normal, I guess." Now _that_ was a lie of all times, but if Arthur described Alfred as the American truly was, Francis would surely recognise him.

The Frenchman uttered a laughter, as if knowing that the Englishman was lying, and Arthur grew instantly suspicious. "What?"

"Oh, nothing." Francis waved a hand dismissively, still chuckling. "It's just quite hard to imagine you with someone 'pretty normal'."

"Right."

"I'm sorry." Francis emptied his glass and placed it on the coffee table beside the sofa. He gave Arthur a grin. "I guess he was eager to save you from me."

Likely vice versa, Arthur thought grimly, struck by a pang of jealousy again. If anything, Alfred would be eager to take Francis and hide him from Arthur's malicious influence, not worry about 'saving' Arthur. The Englishman stole a glance at the Frenchman beside him. He hated himself for admitting it, but truth be told, he had no troubles understanding why Alfred had fallen for Francis. There was no denying, looking at that handsome, elegant profile, that when it came to good looks, Francis had plenty, and after spending the evening with the Frenchman Arthur could tell that the man knew how to be pleasant and charming, too. The worst part was that now Arthur found himself unable to even hate Francis, although only hours earlier he had been doing a very good job at it.

"Have you two been long together?" Again, Francis snapped Arthur out of his thoughts.

"A couple of years," Arthur answered, desperate for a change of subject, but then an idea occurred to him, and he was speaking before he could stop himself. "And what about you and your boyfriend? You said back in the shop that you had one," he hurried to clarify when Francis looked puzzled.

"Oh, not long, really." The Frenchman shrugged. "Only four months or so."

_Four months,_ Arthur thought. _ For four months have I put up with this shit. _"Right," he said.

"I don't even know how I got together with him," Francis continued, and Arthur's gut twisted in a most unpleasant way. He wasn't sure he wanted to hear this... No, he certainly did not want to hear about Alfred and Francis' relationship, especially not from Francis! But he couldn't come up with a believable excuse for the Frenchman to shut up, and so he had to listen.

"Alfred certainly isn't my type. Loud. Obnoxious." Francis looked at Arthur with an unreadable expression on his face while he spoke, making Arthur want to squirm on his spot. "Horrible taste in just about everything." The Frenchman shuddered. "Perhaps I just wanted to have some change."

_Oh this is jolly fucking great. _Arthur bristled on the sofa, trying to keep up a nonchalant appearance. _So my relationship is in danger of breaking because you wanted to have some _change_, you frog._

"Though, there is one thing that..." Francis started, then sighed and dropped it. "Oh, never mind. Sorry, the wine is making me talk."

Arthur felt as if he had swallowed a bunch of wasps that were now trying to find their way out of his stomach. "Do you," he began, then he had to swallow to moisten his suddenly dry throat before trying again. "Is it serious between you two?"

Francis turned to him, his eyes deep and bottomless and almost black in the dim light, and he opened his mouth to answer, and suddenly Arthur wanted to reach out with his fingers to the Frenchman's chin in order to find out whether the stubble there was scratchy or soft...

And then a phone rang and Arthur snapped out of it just in time.

"Sorry, I have to get that," Francis said and rose from the sofa to walk to the other side of the living-room. He picked up the phone – it was an old land-line telephone, who even _used_ those any more? – and Arthur stared at him all the while, realisation of how _close_ he had been downing in. Okay, the phone had obviously been a sign for Arthur to cut his foolishness and get back home before the wine would get to his head even more and make him do something very stupid that he would no doubt regret.

Francis was speaking in French, presumably with his mother from what Arthur was able to catch from the conversation (not that he particularly tried to), and the conversation was rather short.

"Sorry about that," Francis said as he put down down the handset. "It was my mother."

"No problem," Arthur mumbled. "Look, I need to get going. Work tomorrow."

"Oh. All right." Francis couldn't know what Arthur had been in danger of doing, could he? So why was he looking at Arthur like that, like he didn't want him to go, like there was something that needed to be clarified between them?

"Er. Thanks, I guess, for..." Arthur gestured towards the record player and realised that Jacques Brel had stopped singing long ago. "Well, tonight."

A smile flickered on the Frenchman's lips as he accompanied Arthur to the door. "My pleasure. I hope you changed your opinion about Brel."

"You could say so, yes." Arthur opened the door.

"You should call a taxi," Francis said. "I'd rather not drive after wine. I'll pay for it, of course."

"No, there's no need to. I'll go by bus." Arthur stepped out of the apartment.

"Well." Francis gave him one more smile. "See you later then, Arthur." It almost sounded like a question.

Arthur's stomach did a funny flip. "Yeah," he answered. "See you later."

xXx


	5. Chapter 5

**This Is War and I Won't Surrender**

Arthur didn't tell Alfred about his little trip to Francis' place. Neither did he mention eating lunch with the Frenchman at the café terrace twice after that, or that Francis had once emerged in the music shop and they had spent almost an hour chatting while Arthur did his work. (Francis had left the shop with empty hands that day.) There was nothing suspicious in Arthur's secrecy – it was just that he couldn't simply tell Alfred that he was becoming good friends with the American's secret lover, could he? He didn't want to bust them. Had it been anyone else but Francis, Arthur would have told Alfred, of course, because there was no reason whatsoever to keep his new acquaintance secret from the American, other than him and Alfred shagging behind Arthur's back, fuck it all.

But now that Arthur _knew_ Francis, it somehow felt doubly worse when Alfred disappeared to meet the Frenchman. Jealousy was mauling the Englishman in so many different ways, inside and out, that he was crawling out of his skin and desperately trying to _understand, _because it shouldn't be like that, it shouldn't feel like that, it was all horribly _wrong_. His original plan to get close with his enemy was working all right, but... No one had ever told what to do when the said enemy was becoming a little _too_ close.

"Dude, relax!" Alfred told him when Arthur dropped his fork for the second time on the American's phone buzzing during dinner (Arthur's overcooked macaronis with what should be fish). "You've been fidgety for I don't know how long."

"I haven't!" Arthur dived under the table after the fork. "Who the hell is texting you the whole evening?"

His face emerged from under the table just in time to see Alfred scowl. "Ivan," the American grumbled darkly. "He has this problem with me," he then explained, as if it was some news to Arthur.

"What is it this time?"

"I forgot some of my papers in the meeting room, and our boss made Ivvy take them to deliver later to me." Alfred tapped the screen of his phone with his own fork, as if shooting the messenger would help. "So now he's being an ass about it."

One of Arthur's eyebrows rose deliberately. "Ivvy?"

Alfred actually coloured at that a bit. "Yeah, well. He hates it when I call him that. Besides it's much easier to say Ivvy than Ivan."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Here we go again. Ivan isn't even a long or difficult name."

"Come on! As if you never called anyone by a nickname!"

"I don't give nicknames out of laziness!"

"That's the exact reason why people _give_ nicknames! Because they don't want to pronounce the whole name!"

This time Arthur had to admit his defeat. "Not in all the cases," he grumbled, not going down without at least having the final word. "Sometimes people have nicknames because they dislike their real name. Or because their nickname describes them somehow."

Alfred rolled his eyes. "So when you call me Al you do it because it describes me better than Alfred?"

"No, but I call you idiot because _that_ does!" Arthur snapped, but not with real annoyance. "Eat your food and quit the nonsense."

"Gee, are you my mother or what?" Alfred huffed sulkily, but obediently picked up his fork nonetheless.

"I sometimes do feel like it," Arthur mumbled. On saying the words out loud he got a funny feeling and reflexively looked at Alfred. The American was looking back at him, too, and for the one or two seconds that they maintained the eye contact, there was something akin to a mutual understanding in the air between them, but it ended quickly before neither of the men could identify it.

"Hey, by the way," Alfred started, then stuffed his mouth full of food and continued, now mumbling something incomprehensible, until he was forced to chew and swallow his mouthful of macaronis before everything ended up on the table.

Arthur rolled his eyes very pointedly, but uttered a laughter nonetheless. "Come again?"

Alfred washed the last crumbs down with his coke. "I was saying," he said, "that there's a party this weekend. Wanna go?"

"Whose party?" Arthur asked, suspicious. He had been to parties thrown by Alfred's friends before, and he had learnt the hard way to be cautious about them.

"Well, I don't really know him well-"

"What a promising start."

"But he's a good friend of Ivan, and I've met him some times. He's a cool guy, even if he's German. I think you would like him, you two are kinda similar."

Arthur considered it for a moment. It had been a while since Alfred and he had spontaneously gone to a random party just for the sake of it, and it might do them good, especially after the comment concerning mothers. At least it wouldn't hurt to check it out.

"Can't see why not," he said and grinned. "Actually, why the hell not. Sounds like fun."

Alfred grinned back at him, and for one embarrassing moment they just sat there, grinning at each other like two stupid teenagers who were going to a forbidden party in hopes of getting drunk for the first time in their silly lives. Thankfully, Alfred got quickly up and grabbed his phone. "Cool!" He went to pull on his bomber jacket. "I'll go fetch my papers from that commie before he can sell all our secrets to his Communion." Alfred paused. "Ha ha, got it? Commies plus the Soviet Union equals Communion!"

Arthur couldn't resist slamming his both hands over his face. "For fuck's sake, Alfred, that was the most terrible excuse of a joke that I've heard in my_ whole life,_" he groaned. "You'd better hurry before he realises that he doesn't have to try solving your scrawl when he can sell his _own_ notes instead, whenever he feels that his government should know how you wish to improve the production of your corn flakes."

"You never know," Alfred said cheerfully. "My notes are always the best."

xXx


	6. Chapter 6

**This Is War and I Won't Surrender**

_Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick_...

Arthur lay awake in their bed, staring at the ceiling through the darkness, breathing heavily. Alfred was snoring beside him, on his own side of the bed, unaware of the turmoil inside the Englishman.

Arthur pressed his hands against his sweaty face and slowly dragged his fingers through his hair, trying to compose himself. It had been just a dream. It meant nothing. Dreams never did. He should close his eyes and go back to sleep. But... if he did close his eyes, he would see it again, the dream, he was sure of it.

It wasn't that Arthur didn't want to return to that dream. The problem was that he did.

xXx


	7. Chapter 7

**This Is War and I Won't Surrender**

The weekend with the awaited party arrived quickly, and Arthur was feeling very positive about it. He was confident that the party would do good for his plan to win Alfred back; if the American thought that he was boring, he would remind him just how wild he could be, and Alfred would fall for him head over heels again. Arthur had dressed accordingly, too. Instead of his usual shirts and vests and trousers he was now wearing the jeans that showed his lower half in the best of light, and over his T-shirt he wore a black leather jacket. He knew he looked good – he had seen the approving look that Alfred had given him before leaving their apartment. The evening was his chance, and he was not going to blow it. Not even when confusion, funny twists in his insides, and one bloody frog seemed to have permanently possessed him as much as winning Alfred back had.

The car ride wasn't long – Alfred was driving – and soon they had found the correct house – it hadn't been hard, really, with loud music bombing the whole street. For a fleeting moment Arthur pitied the neighbours, but then he realised that he didn't actually care what the neighbours thought; they weren't _his_ neighbours, anyway.

"The guy throwing the party is named Gilbert," Alfred told him when they got out of the car. "I don't know who else is gonna be there, besides Ivan of course, so don't eat my head if you don't like it. You've been warned."

Arthur snorted. "Are we going to go in, or are you that much afraid of me eating your head?"

Naturally Alfred had to prove that he wasn't, and Arthur chuckled when the American strode to the house and nearly bashed in the unlocked door.

"Al, cool, you made it here!" a man with silver-white hair and disturbingly red eyes immediately yelled over the music on them entering the building. He had two drinks in his hands, but he stopped to greet the two blonds. The red eyes turned to Arthur. "You must be... Arthur, was it? I'm Gilbert, so welcome and all that." He grinned. "Check the house and the people. The booze is on the table over there – make sure there won't be any left in the morning – I gotta go now, see you around!" Then somebody dragged him off, and Alfred and Arthur were left alone.

"Well, he was peculiar," Arthur said, casting a look around. He spotted no familiar faces.

Alfred gave a boyish, excited grin to Arthur. "Cool, it's been a while since we were at a party like this," he laughed. Then his laughter changed into a groan. "And there's _him_."

"Who?" Heart suddenly in his throat, Arthur turned around, immediately expecting the worst – that Francis would be there. But his fear was irrational – what would Francis have to do with a booze party like that? – and he saw that Alfred was pointing at some very tall man with ashen hair. The man wore a stylish scarf despite it being quite hot inside, and Arthur recognised him as the infamous Russian. "Oh, you mean Ivan."

Alfred bristled beside him. "Look at him, I bet he's here just to spy on us."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Yes, of course, Alfred. His government just needs to know how drunken people make fools of themselves in this part of the world."

"Don't worry, Arty! I'll keep an eye on him." Alfred boasted. He looked like he was drunk already, even without a drop of alcohol. "The hero on the mission!" Arthur couldn't help but give a small smile at that. That was Alfred he knew, the obnoxious so-called hero, and his 'heroism' was both irritating and amusing, always depending on the situation. At the present, Arthur was amused.

"One day you'll get back to earth," he said. He couldn't decide whether or not that would be fun to witness; it would be a pleasure to see Alfred snap out of his super hero mode, but on the other hand, Arthur was sure that the American would make such a pathetic sight of a kicked puppy that he would be only pitiful to look at. He couldn't resist patting Alfred brotherly on the head at such a thought; after all, it was the American's silly delusions that made him _Alfred_.

"I'll go get us something to drink," he said.

Arthur soon discovered that when it came to alcohol, Gilbert hadn't held back. The table was filled with almost any kind of alcohol he could imagine, from beer to vodka, from wine to whiskey. That was excellent. Now he should only decide how quickly he wanted to have Alfred tipsy, so that he could be swept off his feet. Thinking that a slow beginning was better to put them in the mood, he simply picked two beers and turned to return to the American.

As he got closer, however, he noticed that Alfred was talking with someone. The person was standing with his back to Arthur, but the Englishman could not mistake that wavy, blond hair, or the stylish way the man wore his crimson shirt and tight jeans.

Arthur stopped in his tracks.Oh, fuck. No way, no _fucking_ way. What was Francis goddamn Bonnefoy doing there? His presence changed Arthur's plans completely! Though why, the Englishman couldn't quite tell. All he knew was that he didn't want to get too close with Alfred when _Francis_ was there to see it. And... and he didn't want Alfred to be there, stealing all of the Frenchman's attention to himself.

Alfred was standing with his face to Arthur's direction, and the Englishman noticed easily how uneasy the American's face had fallen. It went all pale, and there were sweat drops forming on his forehead. Suddenly very hateful toward the American, Arthur wished he would suffer. He briskly walked up to the talking couple.

"Here," he passed the beer to Alfred, who took it mechanically. "Uh, wow, cool, thanks Arty," he stuttered, while Arthur turned to the Frenchman, who looked at him, brows furrowing. "Arthur," he greeted, visibly somewhat baffled.

"Francis," Arthur answered, perfectly calm on the surface.

"Didn't know that you know Gilbert," the Frenchman said.

"I don't," Arthur said with a shrug and nodded towards the American. "He does, more or less."

"Hey, uh, wait," Alfred joined in. "So, you, you guys know each other?"

"Yes, we've met before," Francis said, and Arthur sensed some uneasiness in the nonchalant way he spoke... or then he just imagined it. "I had no idea that you two were acquainted, too."

Arthur cast a glance at Alfred, feeling oddly thrilled and scared and numb and whatnot, all at the same time. Maybe it hadn't been that good an idea to interrupt the two. Perhaps he should have let them finish talking, to avoid awkward situations like the one at hand. But at the same time, something heavy that had long ago nestled in the pit of his stomach was beginning to unfold, although not in a necessarily pleasant way. Arthur had an inkling that something would be resolved that night, and suddenly he was eager to let it, no matter of the outcome. _Let Alfred explain __himself out of __this_, he thought sadistically, though he almost pitied the American.

"Well, ha ha, we are, anyway." Alfred's voice was at least one pitch higher than usually. "You see, Arthur here, he's, you know, he's – he's my boyfriend."

The way Francis' eyes widened in complete and utter shock gave Arthur some sort of twisted pleasure. "Arthur?" Francis finally managed, staring at Alfred, still wide-eyed. "You mean, it was- is- _Arthur_? That _he's_ your boyfriend?"

"Yeah, ha ha," Alfred laughed weakly. "He's the one!"

The blue eyes bored deep into Arthur's green ones, then back at Alfred. "Alfred," Francis said, tone deep and grave and cold with anger. "So you still haven't..?"

"Ha ha, nope, I guess I... forgot." Alfred looked around for a quick salvation, but no such thing appeared. So much for all the hero-talk, Arthur thought.

Francis threw his hands in the air. "For heaven's sake, Alfred!" Then he directed his fury at the Englishman. "And _you_!" He seemed like he wanted to say more, but didn't. Instead he muttered an excuse to leave them and disappeared among dancing people. Alfred and Arthur were left alone again, and for a while they just stood there, both drinking their beer and each occupied with his own thoughts. Well, at least Arthur was thinking. He wondered whether Alfred had realised that Arthur _knew_, or if he clung to the hope that Francis had never told anything about him to the Englishman. The answer, however, came soon.

"So, have you known him long?" Alfred asked, now considerably calmer when Francis was out of sight.

Arthur shrugged. "Not really. Met him a couple of times."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Arthur barked a laughed. "Are you jealous?" he mocked, though the target of the mockery was more he himself rather than Alfred. "You knew him too, and a great deal better than I, as it seems, and you told nothing to me either."

"Yeah, well. Yeah."

They resumed to silence; it was easier than talking. Arthur wanted nothing more than to get away from Alfred, and no doubt Alfred felt the same, but neither of them felt it acceptable to just flee without a good excuse.

Luckily, the excuse came, and none too early.

"Hello," someone said behind them, and they turned to see Ivan.

"Hi," Arthur answered, but Alfred chose another greeting. "So you're here too," he scoffed haughtily, as if it was his party and not Gilbert's.

"Of course I'm here. _I_ told you about this party, remember?"

"I know Gilbert, too!"

"Yes, through me."

Arthur decided that to be the perfect moment to go. "I'll leave you two to socialise," he said hastily and turned away, eager to be somewhere where none of these people would see him. He needed to think, to figure out what exactly had happened and what would happen, now that Francis knew that he, Arthur, was the boyfriend who had been cheated on.

But what _could_ happen? What would change? How would Francis knowing change anything? Arthur halted abruptly. _Fool, _he berated himself. Francis and Alfred were going out, dating, being together in a relationship, and for that whole time Francis had apparently been aware of that he was _someone else_, that Alfred was taken. It hadn't stopped him then, so why would it stop him now? The simple fact that the Frenchman now knew Arthur's pathetic role in the whole affair meant nothing.

"Why am I even bothering?" Arthur muttered to himself, and something hot stung behind his eyes. That made him aware of the fact that he was standing in the middle of the room, people going around him laughing, drinking, and dancing, and that he sure must look weird. Tears were still prickling threateningly behind his eyes, and one thing was sure: Arthur Kirkland would not cry in public. He needed to get out of sight, and be quick about it... but where? Sure, he could always leave, but Gilbert's house was too far from his and Alfred's to walk there. He could take a taxi though, but he didn't want to go home and mope alone in his misery just yet, now when he felt that the whole mess was on the verge of clearing.

Then he spotted the solution – namely, a balcony door. Without a second thought Arthur bolted for the door, as if his life depended on it (at least his dignity did, and that was even more important). As soon as he was out of the door, he noticed that it wasn't a balcony, but a small garden instead (well, of course – the house had only one floor). Even better. Three girls were leaning against a wall with their drinks, caught up in whatever conversation, but otherwise, the garden was empty. There was a tumbledown tool shed in the farthest corner of the garden, and to play it safe, Arthur headed for it, intending to hide behind it. There he wouldn't be disturbed.

Fortunately the ground around the shed was pebbled, so Arthur didn't have to sit on cold, wet grass. He sat down, sighed, and let his tears fall – but none came. Oh, just as well. Crying would do no good, anyway. If Alfred and Francis' relationship had gone serious enough for them to agree about breaking it to Arthur, was there any chance of Alfred coming back to him?

But, more importantly... _Did_ Arthur even want him back? Or was it actually someone entirely else whom he wanted, someone, say, less American and more... French?

This thought was not elaborated further, because precisely at the same time with its occurrence someone plopped down on the pebbles beside Arthur.

The Englishman had been so occupied with his thoughts that the appearance of another person took him completely by surprise and he jumped, breathing out a curse or two. He turned to his left to see the intruder, and really, he shouldn't have been surprised to find that it was Francis.

And a very _drunk_ Francis, at that.

The Frenchman leant his back against the tool shed and hummed contentedly, not even seeming to realise that he was not alone. Then Arthur saw what made the frog so happy: he was nursing two unopened bottles of wine in his arms, and as soon as he was comfortably settled on pebbles, he had eyes only for them. As a matter of fact, so did Arthur. Alcohol. Now _that_ was precisely what he needed.

Francis froze in the middle of his attempt to open one of the bottles, as if sensing that there was a third party lusting for his precious wine. Slowly he looked to his right, which was when he spotted Arthur. "You," he mumbled darkly, hugging the bottle to himself in a protective manner. "What are you doing here? This is my place." Arthur could hear from the Frenchman's voice that he had consumed more than one glass of wine already.

"The fuck it is," the Englishman growled in response. Did Francis think that he could first steal Arthur's boyfriend, then march to his hiding place and steal that too? "I was here first, so go away."

"As it happens, I don't want to." To make his point clear, Francis tapped the ground between himself and Arthur. "I'm already here."

"Fucking bastard."

"Be quiet, _rosbif._ I have something important to attend to." And the Frenchman resumed to opening his bottle, which, however, appeared to be quite a challenge in his drunken state.

Arthur contemplated leaving, but there was nothing for him inside the house. On the other hand, if he remained where was, he would get some wine and not feel quite as pathetic as he truly was. He'd rid himself of the Frenchman somehow, but keep the wine, at least one bottle. Satisfied with his plan, he sneakily reached for the neglected bottle by the Frenchman's side.

Francis, however, was not yet too drunk to react quickly. He protected the bottles with his torso, not letting Arthur grasp any of them. "Don't even think of it!"

"That's not fair! I was here first and now you deny me even the wine, which isn't even yours!"

"I didn't bring these to you!"

"To whom, then?" Arthur asked sulkily and crossed his arms. "Did you expect to share your wine with someone else here?" _Like Alfred?_

"_No__n_! These are for me."

"Two bottles?"

"Good, you can count."

"You are drunk already, you don't need two! I'm still sober."

That seemed to give the Frenchman a pause. Apparently he understood the logic and, reluctantly, passed one of the bottles to Arthur. "Here."

"Thanks."

For a moment both of them focused on opening their respective bottles – luckily, they didn't need a screw for it – and with success, took long, healthy gulps. With that, the situation became considerably more bearable. For a while they sat in silence, listening to people's cheery chatter and loud music carried to the garden, but they both knew that they had something to discuss. Eventually, Francis was the one to speak up first.

"You knew." His voice was slurring a bit.

"Yeah." By then, Arthur's wasn't any better.

"Since I mentioned his name that evening at my place?"

"Since you to went to the new art gallery."

Francis took a while to digest the information and gulped more wine to help the process. "You knew before we first met," he then mumbled, frowning. "At the café terrace."

"Yeah."

"And you didn't say anything."

"No."

"You pretended you knew nothing this whole time."

"What, you going to state every fact in this damned world?"

Francis shook his head. "I just can't understand why on earth you would do that."

To be honest, at that particular moment Arthur had troubles understanding his own reasoning, too. He swung the bottle to mask that fact and pointed a finger at Francis, miscalculating his distance and accidentally poking the Frenchman in his ear. "Yuck," he said and snickered. Then he coughed politely and asked, "How long did _you_ know?"

Francis snorted, rubbing his ear. "I don't know, this past hour or so. I thought you were present to see me finding out."

"No, idiot. How long did you know that Alfred was taken?"

"Oh, that. Why didn't you say so earlier? He told me after a month or so after we started dating. Or rather," Francis wrinkled his nose. "I noticed that something was amiss and confronted him about it, so he had no choice but telling the truth."

"Ha," said Arthur, because he noticed that his bottle was emptying at an alarming speed, and he didn't know what else he could say to anything, anyway.

"Didn't know it was you, though."

"And you carried on with him even though you knew you were breaking somebody's relationship? You are a sodding bastard."

Francis had some nerve to look somewhat offended at that. "For one," he said, "Alfred promised long ago that he would be honest with you and see where it would lead. Not my fault he didn't. Besides, your relationship was long since dead before I even saw Alfred, from all I can gather."

Now that was pretty insolent. Arthur hit Francis on the head with an open hand. "As soon as my bottle is empty, I will hit you with it," he promised, because he fully intended to hit hard enough for the bottle to break, and he didn't want to waste any wine on Francis.

"You wouldn't."

"I would."

"Wouldn't."

"Would."

"Wouldn't."

Naturally such unbelief convinced Arthur not to wait until he had drained the bottle, but instead hit Francis with it right away. He didn't hit the man very hard, though. He didn't want to get jailed for murder.

"Ow!"

"I did," the Englishman said smugly, watching Francis rubbing his head. The blue eyes looked at him, hurt. "I was going to offer you the rest of my wine, but I changed my mind," Francis said sulkily.

"What? No! You owe me your bottle!"

"I don't!"

"You do! You stole my boyfriend, so leave me at least the wine!"

"_Non_. Keep Alfred, but the wine is mine."

"I don't want Alfred, I want the wine!"

"Then don't whine about me stealing him!" Francis pushed his bottle to Arthur rather forcibly, and the Englishman took it eagerly, now merrily hugging two nearly empty wine bottles.

They fell into silence once again while Arthur lovingly emptied his own bottle, then tossed it aside and took a gulp of Francis', too. Then he focused on watching with interest how the world started swimming in the night sky, and how Francis went around in circles. Somewhere there a smallest bit of Arthur's mind could still comprehend and reminded the Englishman that this wasn't exactly the best way to deal with the conversation that he should go through with Francis, but hell, who cared?

Francis chuckled. "I don't usually drink to get drunk. I am ashamed of myself." His drunkenness was practically seeping through his voice, and Arthur couldn't help laughing at him.

"You should be," he then slurred and took one more sip for courage, because he was about to voice a very important question, and hearing the answer would probably hurt. "Are you in love?" he shot his question.

Francis answered immediately, in one breath. "Not with Alfred."

"Good," Arthur said, relief washing through his drunken system. Then he realised that the answer implied a love for someone else, and frowned. "With whom, then?"

The dark blue eyes nailed Arthur to the wall of the tool shed and studied him intently, as if undressing the Englishman of every layer of pretence and lies and appearances... and clothing, yes, of clothing too, like in Arthur's dream the other night.

And then, without a warning, Francis was everywhere, not only because of alcohol messing with Arthur's sight, but also because the Frenchman filled the Englishman's entire vision, and then he was kissing Arthur, or maybe Arthur was kissing him, or perhaps they did it together, at the same time.

Francis was drunk, and Arthur was drunk, and their kiss really wasn't the sort of supposedly earth-shattering kiss that always followed the final battle in the action films, but in spite of that Arthur felt something that he hadn't experienced for a long, long time: he felt electricity sparkle between Francis and himself when their lips touched, and hands entwined in each other's hair, and bodies pressed flush against one another. It was a dazzling sensation, and he loved it.

But then it ended, because Francis withdrew from Arthur's personal space, eyes wide and full of guilt. "_Merde_, I'm sorry. We shouldn't have."

_No_, Arthur thought. _We shouldn't have_. Because Alfred was cheating on Arthur with Francis, so it wasn't like Arthur could go around kissing Francis! And what the hell, did that make Arthur sort of a cheater as well, because he kissed Francis behind Alfred's back? But was it really cheating, since Alfred was already cheating, and hell, it was the same person, Francis, who was in the middle of it, and... Just what the actual fuck was going on?

But there was a part, and not a small one, in Arthur's mind, determinedly insisting that everything considered, Francis and Arthur not only _should have_ kissed, but should even _continue_ kissing. Not because the kiss had been amazing, which it hadn't due to all the alcohol, but because of the electricity between Francis and Arthur. It had been that one kind of electricity that occurred only when Things Could Go Serious. The kind that hadn't sparked between Alfred and Arthur for a long time.

"Shit," Arthur muttered, looking at Francis and trying to get his eyes off his exposed throat. "We kissed."

"Well observed," Francis managed to sound cheeky, rolling his eyes.

"You fucking wino, you are with Alf-" Wait, no. "I'm with Alf-" Oh, for fuck's sake. "We are both with Alfred, and we _kissed_!"

Francis frowned at the offensive manner of reference to his persona. "Precisely. And that, my dear friend Arthur, is why I am drunk in the first place."

Now Arthur was offended. "What, because we kissed? You were drunk already before that!"

"No, you imbecile! Because we are both with Alfred!" Francis crossed his arms. "Or rather, you are with Alfred."

"You are not one to talk," Arthur muttered sullenly. Miraculously, the kiss seemed to have sobered him up a bit, and he was beginning to feel that perhaps it was time to take some distance between the Frenchman and himself. "I think," he said, slowly collecting himself off the pebbles and standing up, "I think I should go."

Francis gave him a look, then nodded and reached for the wine bottle that had been cast aside before the kiss. "I think so too." He threw the cork away and lifted the bottle to his lips to consume the remains of the enchanting liquid. "You should go."

Arthur left. Unsteadily, and not quite in a straight line, he headed back for the house, managed to guide himself right through it, stumbled past Alfred who was wholly immersed in a drinking battle with Ivan, and successfully walked out of the front door to the street. "Taxi," he shouted, even though the street was empty of any kind of vehicles. "Taxi!" Fortunately, two metres and several minutes later, a vacant taxi happened to drive past the drunk Englishman, who seized the opportunity.

When he got home, Arthur crawled straight to bed, only kicking his boots off his feet before climbing into the safe, soft, warm heaven. He would do the thinking the next day. Until then, he would be content to drown himself in the memory of the unexpected kiss.

Or at least he thought he would, before passing out on his bed.

xXx


	8. Chapter 8

**This Is War and I Won't Surrender**

_Click._

Arthur panicked, dropped his book on the floor and pressed his face into the sofa pillow. He hadn't yet finished his tea, so it would go cold, but it couldn't be helped now. He should have thought of that before.

The front door opened, then closed with much less noise than usually. "Arty?"

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut. It was stupid, oh, he knew it was stupid, but he had acted on impulse and it was too late to back down now, so the Englishman pressed his lips tightly together and tried to appear as natural as possible. He was napping, so he didn't hear anything, or see anything, or react to anything. Hush.

"Arthur?"

Arthur heard the steps enter the living-room, where he was attempting to drown in the sofa and never emerge on the surface again. He knew he was pathetic, damn it all, avoiding Alfred like that, but he didn't want to face the American just yet, couldn't face him. It was the second day after the faithful party already, and Arthur had spent the time mulling over what had happened there, and what had happened already long before it. He had been forced to face the truth, so facing the American could wait just a little more, couldn't it? There certainly was a limit to how many things could be faced in such a short timespan.

"Lazy old ass," Alfred said bluntly.

Lucky for that little punk that Arthur was sleeping, the Yankee. Otherwise the Englishman would have showed him what's what...

Then Alfred's phone rang, loud and sudden, but the American silenced it immediately and quickly withdrew into their bedroom, closing the door behind himself. Arthur immediately opened his eyes and listened.

"Hi, Franny."

_Oh, so._ Arthur's mood darkened rapidly. _Pour some more poison in my tea, why won't you?_

"No. Well, yeah, but he's sleeping. Yeah. Okay, sounds legit. Yeah. Yeah. See you in a minute."

The bedroom door opened and Arthur shut his eyes again, heart pounding in his chest. Alfred hadn't noticed that he's awake, had he? But no, the American walked straight to the front door, threw on his jacket and left.

As soon as the door was slammed shut (this time Alfred hadn't bothered being considerate), Arthur's eyes flew open again and he sat up on the sofa. His insides were effectively tying themselves in painful knots, and his heart was successfully crumbling in little pieces. So, Francis had called Alfred and asked to see him. Alfred, not Arthur. And Alfred had gone. Well, it wasn't like Arthur had expected anything, really, because he hadn't. But perhaps, perhaps he had dared allow himself to hope, just a tiniest bit, not more. For nothing, as it now seemed.

The teacup sat on the coffee table, and Arthur glared at it accusingly. The tea had gone cold, just as he had predicted. He reached for the cup and swallowed the bitter liquid anyway, all in one gulp.

It was over, then. Alfred and Francis would agree to break the news to Arthur and to start a normal relationship. Francis wouldn't choose Arthur, and Alfred wouldn't come back, and it hurt even though Arthur didn't even want to have Alfred back any more. He just didn't want to be left like this. Not like he was some second-hand item on sale that no one wanted, like he wasn't good enough for anyone. He didn't want to be dumped by two people at once, damn it all!

He went to the kitchen and put the kettle on for some more tea, hot this time, thank you very much. While the water boiled, Arthur picked up his book again, but even Milton wasn't able to keep his attention focused, so he gave up (Arthur, not Milton) and switched the telly on instead. Arthur dutifully flipped through all the channels just to prove to anyone who was interested that there really was nothing worth watching on regular channels, so it was perfectly okay for him to settle for the Disney channel. That clear, he leant back on the sofa, brought his knees to his chin and let himself fall into the world of the Hunchback of Notre Dame.

While the commercials were ruining the otherwise good film, Arthur put the tea to brew and returned to the telly. Fortunately, the commercials were over soon enough, and Arthur got back to relating with the Hunchback, but just then the front door flew open without a warning, and a loud Alfred pranced in. "Arty!"

Arthur's reflexes were quick, but he was taken unawares, and so, this time, he was not quick enough. Alfred burst into laughter. "You were watching Disney channel again!"

"No I wasn't!" Arthur defended himself, face colouring. His possible obsession with Disney films was his well-guarded secret, and his alone! "I was just waiting for the commercials to end on the first channel!"

"You totally weren't!"

"And, and what for did you bash in like that, pray tell me?"

Laughter died on Alfred's lips and his eyes fell serious. Arthur's heart dropped to his stomach, and he realised that the moment, the moment that should have arrived long ago, was finally at hand. It was time to break off their relationship.

"Arty, we need to talk." Alfred sat down on the sofa beside Arthur.

The Englishman braced himself. "I know."

Alfred gave him a long look, then focused on his sleeve for some time, then looked back to Arthur. "Arthur," he began, and for a silly little second Arthur felt like a proud big brother, whose junior was about to have his first serious talk ever. The thought, however, evaporated quickly. "Arthur, I think... I think that we should break up."

It was easy to see that Alfred was waiting for some kind of riot, a thunderstorm, a deadly war, and now, when it came to it, Arthur didn't have the heart to keep him in fear. "I think so too," he said instead, softly and tiredly.

"What?" Alfred blinked at him. "You agree?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Yes, I agree. What did you expect, me to cry rivers and cling to you and plead you to never leave me?"

"Ha ha, something like that."

"Not happening."

They sat in silence then, Arthur waiting for continuation, and Alfred probably searching for words.

"Don't you feel sad at all?" the American then asked, uncharacteristically shyly, meekly even.

Arthur looked at his now ex-boyfriend for a long time, contemplating his own feelings. He hadn't felt _that_ kind of love or passion towards Alfred in a long time, he was ready to understand and admit that now. He had fought for him to get him back, but that had been more of sheer stubbornness than real feelings, and even he couldn't deny that lately his relationship with Alfred had become more a brotherly one (or even a _motherly_ one, heaven forbid!) than that of lovers'.

"Of course I'm sad," Arthur uttered, perhaps slightly more sharply than was necessary. Yes, he was sad. He was sad, because it hadn't worked out in the end, that he was once again alone, that it was Alfred who had met Francis first.

"Are you... are you mad?"

How dare Alfred ask him that? Anger flared within the Englishman. "Yes, I am bloody mad, as soon as you have the guts to tell me the initial reason why you want to break up!"

Alfred looked first surprised, then sheepishly cast his eyes at Arthur. "You... _know_?"

Arthur merely lifted one of his eyebrows at that. Perhaps he didn't want Alfred any more, but that didn't change the facts; the American had been cheating on him for over four months, and he wasn't going to get out of it without any torment.

"Know what?" Arthur asked in a treacherously calm voice.

Alfred looked at him defiantly – no doubt he saw what Arthur was doing. But he also understood that it was well deserved, and lowered his eyes. "Yeah," he started. "I... did something not entirely heroic." He raised his eyes to meet Arthur's. "I was with Francis. For a couple of months."

"You were with Francis."

Alfred groaned, defeated. "Fine. _Cheated_ on you."

Now it was all said. Of course, Arthur had known long already, but still hearing the truth stated aloud had an impact on him. Now it was said. It was official. Pretences were dropped. The blow came, and then... then the knife that had long ago made a home of Arthur's heart pulled out.

The Englishman covered his face with his hands and muttered a curse.

"Ar... Arty?" Alfred's voice was tentative, careful, worried.

"I knew," Arthur confessed warily. "I've known for months. Two at least."

Alfred looked startled, then ashamed. His big blue puppy eyes were so sorrowful that the American indeed made a pathetic sight... and it was _Arthur_ who had being cheated on! "Arty, I'm- I'm sorry, I never wanted to, but, it just..." Alfred's eyes filled with tears and Arthur was very nearly overwhelmed by a brotherly urge to pat his head and assure that everything was all right, and it was damn ridiculous!

"We just weren't really... working like _that_ any more, and... and I thought, when I saw Francis, I don't know, I thought... I didn't really think."

Arthur recalled his own experiences with the Frenchman. "Yes, he has that effect on people," he muttered to himself, remembering the night with Brel at Francis'.

"What did you say?"

"I said that you are an idiot," Arthur retorted, this time louder for the American to hear. "You should have just told me. And you dragged it on for so long, too!"

"I know, but... I didn't want to break it off with you. It wasn't serious with Francis."

This quite caught Arthur's full interest. "Not serious with him?"

Alfred fidgeted uncomfortably. "No. Yeah, I know it was wrong, but Francis wanted to have something different after his previous disastrous relationship – that's what he told me – and I. Well. I. You know."

"Wanted some change?"

"Something like that, I guess."

"And... so..." Arthur made a point of casually inspecting a loose thread on his sleeve. "So, what about you and Francis?"

He almost didn't notice how Alfred's lips curved in a brief, funny smile. "Me and Francis? Nah, we broke it off, too."

Nothing changed on the Englishman's face. He still gave his full attention to his sleeve. "I see. Right. Well." Arthur rubbed his temples. "This is it then." He looked at Alfred and gave a weak grin. "Let's put an official end to this and be done with it."

Alfred's face lit up with hope. "Have you forgiven me?"

"Yes, but don't be mistaken. I'm still mad at you for what you did and how you dealt with it." Arthur sighed and shook his head. "You are still such a child, Al."

"Am not! Besides, it would make you a paedophile... Okay, eww, that's gross." Alfred shuddered, but then a nervous chuckle broke free from his lips. "Man, I'm so relieved." He offered his hand to Arthur. "Friends?"

Arthur grabbed it. "Git."

Alfred patted his shoulder and got up from the sofa. "Right. I'll be going then. I have a... umm, a mission."

Arthur's eyebrows rose suspiciously. "A mission?"

Alfred's new wave of nervousness was palpable. He pushed his hands in his pockets and laughed stupidly and looked at his toes. "Yeah, it's a... actually, it's a stupid thing, it's just a... I just need to have a chat with Ivan."

"_Need_ to? Did he finally sell to his government your secret corn flake recipe?"

"Very funny, Art. It's... it's just about something that happened at Gilbert's party the other night." Very casually, the American straightened his jacket and glanced at the clock. "Yeah, gotta go."

Arthur rolled his eyes. He only hoped that the two idiots hadn't killed any civilians in their ridiculous arguments. "Whatever."

Alfred looked at him from the door. "So, see you? As friends?"

"We had that established already, hadn't we?"

"Good!" Then Alfred cast him a sly smile that didn't fit his face at all. "By the way, Francis might give you a call sometime soon."

"Wha-"

But the door had slammed shut already, and Arthur realised that the tea he had left to brew in the kitchen had gone cold, too. Again.

"Fuck you," he muttered, and went to put the kettle on.

xXx


	9. Chapter 9

**This Is War and I Won't Surrender**

Autumn sky was grey and depressing. It wasn't raining, but the wind worked rather nastily, making Arthur shiver. Not that the Englishman was outside to suffer it, no – he was sitting in some café he had never visited before, safe from the weather. It was just that even looking outside was enough to send shivers run down Arthur's back.

Besides, his tea was cold again, and that was entirely Francis' fault.

"So," the Frenchman was currently saying, "What do you think, Arthur?" His eyes, blue like the summer sky, bored into the forest-green ones, waiting for an answer. "Would you like to try it out? Try _us_?"

Arthur stared at his tea (with a drop of milk, no sugar) and tried to figure it all out. Alfred had been right; Francis had called Arthur shortly after the American had left, and said that they needed to talk. Arthur had said yes. Francis had proposed a café to meet at. Arthur had said yes. Francis had offered to pick him up by car. Arthur had declined.

It had been awkward, the first hour of their meeting. They had ordered their drinks (latte for Francis, Ceylon tea for Arthur), but both were left untouched, as the Frenchman had started talking. He had apologised for his behaviour at the infamous party and for the whole Alfred-thing. He had explained that he hadn't planned any long-lasting relationships with anyone, and then he had told that they had talked with Alfred and ended their affair in mutual understanding, as they both had an eye set on someone else. And then Francis had confessed that Arthur had caught his attention on that very first time at the café terrace, after which his interest had been sealed on the night of musical education at his own place. He had tried to deny it at first, but then it had got out of hand, and, at Gilbert's party, alcohol had done the deed which would have been prevented by any sensible thoughts, had wine not driven those away.

It was awkward as hell, but then Arthur had retorted something of wine-suckers, and Francis had countered with something equally offensive about drunkards, and the tension had gone, and natural conversation had started flowing. They had both relaxed and immersed themselves in a debate of whether the weather was a truly interesting topic to discuss, and their drinks stood neglected, and it still wasn't quite raining outside.

And now Francis had changed the topic back to them, and waited for an answer.

It wasn't the best start for a relationship, really – accepting the man who had been dating Arthur's boyfriend while the said boyfriend was still in a relationship with the Englishman. In fact, it was bloody ridiculous. But then again, the whole situation had been ridiculous from the very beginning, so it couldn't get any worse even if Arthur said yes.

"Yes," he said.

He hadn't even realised how tense Francis had been, but now he saw how the Frenchman's shoulders relaxed and how it looked like sun was shining in the skies that were his eyes. "Good," he said, and smiled, and Arthur smiled, too.

"Look, Alfred, isn't that Arthur?" a voice then asked.

Both Francis and Arthur froze, then simultaneously looked around – and true enough, Alfred was standing at the door of the café, and not alone; Ivan was standing beside him and pointing at Arthur and Francis.

Alfred didn't look particularly keen on joining the two at their table, but Ivan ignored his reluctance and so they approached Francis and Arthur's table.

"Ha ha, hi," Alfred said, a little bit nervously.

"Hello," Arthur said, casting a pointed (but sneaky) glance and Ivan and raised his eyebrows ever so slightly in a questionable manner. Alfred deliberately pretended not to notice.

"Hello," Francis said and smiled, looking at Ivan. "I don't think we have met before, have we? My name is Francis Bonnefoy, pleased to meet you."

"Ivan Braginski." The Russian extended his hand to the Frenchman, who grabbed it.

"Do join us, you two," Arthur offered generously, ignoring Alfred's pained groan.

"Thank you," Ivan said and sat down beside the Englishman. "So, you two broke up successfully, I understand."

"We did," Arthur confirmed. "Very rational of you to make sure," he added innocently. "One never knows with Alfred."

"Dude," Alfred groaned, but Arthur smirked. He had forgiven Alfred, of course, but he wasn't going to let the other one off the hook any time soon.

"What do you mean?" Ivan asked.

"Well, he had promised to this Francis here that he'd break up with me, but he hadn't," Arthur explained helpfully.

"Wait a second." Ivan turned to the Frenchman. "Have you dated Alfred, as well?"

"For a couple of months, yes."

"But it's over now!" Alfred chimed in, laughing nervously. "Hey, Iv, let's go get something to bite!"

Francis looked at the Russian curiously. "So, you two are friends, or..?"

"Ha ha, actually-"

"We are dating," Ivan said calmly.

Arthur nearly fell from his chair. "_What?_"

"Oh, so he was the one," Francis mused aloud.

"You and Ivan?" Arthur couldn't but stare at his former boyfriend. "Well that was sudden, wasn't it?"

"Just as sudden as you and Francis," Alfred retorted defensively.

"Wait, what, wait." Arthur rubbed the bridge of his nose, not knowing whether to laugh or... or what. "This is weird. When did it start?"

"At Gilbert's party," Alfred admitted. _ That party again, _Arthur thought and made a mental note to himself to avoid every party thrown by this Gilbert from that moment on.

"Earlier," Ivan corrected. "At the party we just-"

"No need to go to details!" Alfred almost shrieked and slammed his hand over the Russian's mouth.

"I wouldn't mind hearing the details," Francis laughed and leant back on his chair, reaching over the table with one hand to grab a hold of Arthur's.

Ivan fought off the American's hand on his face. "Have I understood correctly?" he asked, mild amusement sparkling in his eyes. "So each of you has slept with the other two, yes?"

"_Non_," Francis said and sighed wistfully. "Arthur and I haven't slept together. Yet."

"Oi, no need to elaborate to others, frog!"

"Don't worry, dear. I mean to remedy that lack soon."

"That's not the point!"

Ivan turned to Alfred. "So, you were dating Francis while dating Arthur, who kissed Francis while you were still dating both of them, and meanwhile you were sending me the signals?"

"Uh," Alfred answered.

All right, that was a topic too sick to be taken any further. Arthur shook his head. "This is ridiculous. Change of subject, now."

"Suggest one, then," Francis said with an amused smile.

Arthur didn't even blink. "How do you find the weather? It looks to me that the sky is clearing up, though the wind seems to still be there. Has anyone got the menu? My tea has gone quite cold."

Perhaps it had been ridiculous, perhaps it had been weird, but all of it was (hopefully) in the past at last. Now, with a new cup of hot tea (with a drop of milk and no sugar), it was a new beginning, an end of war. The sky was clearing, and the sun was peeking through the curtain of clouds.

It was a sign of peace.

X


End file.
